


stuck together

by whooves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Handcuffs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Piningjolras, Smittenjolras, basically these two are just idiots, but not in a kinky way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whooves/pseuds/whooves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Enjolras gets out of this situation he is definitely going to kill Courfeyrac. (You know, if he himself doesn't die from embarrassment first.)</p>
<p>Enjolras finds himself handcuffed to Grantaire, and wonders how on earth he is going to hide his massive crush while tethered to the guy he's been pining over for the past few weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stuck together

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Abigail for editing, as always. (Also to Allison and Alana for reading and feedback!)

Courfeyrac is a man of many talents; Enjolras will concede that much. For instance, Courfeyrac is a whiz at checkers, dominates at chess, and has beaten Combeferre many times playing Risk, a feat not easily accomplished.

However, subtlety is not one of his strong suits.

“What do you get when you cross a cynic with a revolutionary?” Courfeyrac says, slinging his arms around Enjolras and Grantaire and leaning way down into Enjolras’s personal space. Grantaire immediately colors, and Enjolras jams his foot over Courfeyrac’s, who doesn’t so much as wince. He receives no answer to his question as he grins back and forth at them.

Unfortunately, he continues.

“Unbearable se-” he begins, but thankfully, a hand is slapped over his mouth, muffling the next few words and saving Enjolras from what would undoubtedly be the most mortifying part of his day. He doesn’t want a stupid joke from Courfeyrac to be how Grantaire finds out about this stupid crush he’s had for weeks now.

Combeferre looks over Courfeyrac’s shoulder pointedly at Enjolras as Courfeyrac removes his arms from around their shoulders.

“I’ve heard the joke,” he says, “it’s not funny. Or subtle.” 

“I can be subtle!” Courfeyrac protests.

“Yeah, and I’m Pablo Picasso,” Grantaire mutters. Enjolras simply elects to glare Courfeyrac into submission. He wishes he could say that it works, but Courfeyrac just grins more.

What he’d really like is for Courfeyrac to go back to his beer and for Combeferre to go back to his book so that he can return to his discussion with Grantaire. The rest of their group has gone home for the evening and Enjolras had been taking advantage of Bossuet and Joly’s absence to converse with Grantaire. 

Enjolras doesn’t quite remember what their conversation was about, but it’s one of the few times this week that Grantaire hasn’t shouted at him and cut down his ideas, so Enjolras is more than happy to listen to him ramble on about Bernini or printmaking or whatever puts that sparkle in his eye. But now Grantaire is just looking at the table, not meeting anyone’s eye.

“Courfeyrac, name one time you have ever been subtle,” Combeferre sighs.

He giggles, a manic look in his eyes. After fidgeting a moment, he bounds away, dragging Combeferre behind him helplessly. The latter looks back with an expression resembling an apology as Courfeyrac cackles madly.

Enjolras tries to bring up his right hand to rake through his curls, but encounters resistance as his hand instead thunks back down on the table, right next to Grantaire’s. Silver handcuffs encompass their wrists, linking Enjolras to the object of his affections by mere inches of shiny metal.

Enjolras’s heart rate immediately quickens, and he can feel sweat beading on his neck. He starts panicking, looking for any way out.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, experimentally pulling his hand away, and then checking to see if the cuffs unlock. They do not.

Upon inspection, the handcuffs are sturdy. Enjolras expects that Courfeyrac has fuzzy cheap handcuffs at home for whatever he gets up to in his spare time, but these are real, and they are locked.

“What?” He swallows, and his voice sounds shakier than he intends it to be.

“Courfeyrac!” Grantaire calls after him, sounding pained.

Grantaire looks scared and unhappy and Enjolras needs to run far, far away from this, but when goes to rise, he forgets that he’s handcuffed. So instead of running after Courfeyrac, he is brought to a halt by their joined wrists, the momentum causing him to stumble back against Grantaire, who he’s accidentally dragged upwards with him. 

“Um,” Grantaire’s voice says somewhere near his ear. Enjolras spins around with a squeak and takes two slow, deep breaths to steady himself.

“Courfeyrac is going to die,” he snarls as he moves forward, trusting that Grantaire will follow. But to his dismay, Courfeyrac is nowhere to be seen.

The next fifteen minutes are spent in tense silence as they sit at the table and both send off frenzied texts to Courfeyrac. He doesn’t answer anything, except one phone call from Enjolras.

“Courfeyrac you get back here this _instant_ ,” Enjolras spits out.

Courfeyrac just giggles and Enjolras just wants to punch him. Grantaire wrestles the phone out of his hand.

“Courfeyrac,” his voice is desperate, “Courfeyrac, why?” Enjolras feels all of the air leave his body and he blinks. He’s well aware that he is not Grantaire’s favorite person, but Grantaire looks _miserable_. The thought hurts, but he pushes it down.

“ _Where is the key?_ ” Grantaire screeches into the receiver. Enjolras waits, tense, and Grantaire pales.

“What do you mean, Courfeyrac? What?” He pulls away the phone from his face, and hands it back to Enjolras dejectedly. “He hung up.”

Enjolras stares at the phone on the table for a minute, willing it to save him somehow, but it doesn’t ring. Even Combeferre has deserted him. _(Traitor.)_

“Look,” Grantaire says. “It’s late,” and Enjolras checks his phone to find a ridiculous time - why is he still at the Musain after midnight? “Can we just get some rest and come back to this problem in the morning?”

Enjolras thinks this over for a moment and supposes it’s the best course of action. Still, what he’d most like to do right now is to wring Courfeyrac’s neck.

“I guess,” he sighs glumly.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbles. “I know I’m not exactly your first choice of someone to be handcuffed to. Personally, I’m going to murder Courfeyrac when we get out of this. But I would really like to get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras murmurs in reply.

It’s not until they’re halfway out the door, coats in hand, that Enjolras remembers their sleeping arrangements are going to have to change, seeing as they’re handcuffed together.

“Um,” he starts.

“Yeah?” Grantaire answers, rubbing his free hand over his eyes.

“Are we sleeping at your apartment or mine?”

“Um. Mine is closer?” Enjolras very carefully does not look at Grantaire’s face.

“Fine,” he allows. “But I’m sleeping on the couch.” At this, Grantaire chuckles weakly.

“Enjolras, we’re handcuffed together; we’re sleeping in the same bed. Get over it.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. No, that’s fine,” he stutters as Grantaire guides him down the street. He’s glad it’s dark and Grantaire isn’t looking back, because Enjolras feels like his face is on fire. He tries not to think much about how in the world he’s going to sleep in the same bed as Grantaire and not give himself away.

He ponders this conundrum as they walk side by side. Their shoulders bump every so often and Enjolras resolutely ignores the way Grantaire moves away each time it happens. 

Several blocks from the cafe, they finally reach his apartment and Grantaire fishes a key out of his pocket. They climb the stairs in silence and he unlocks the door at the top, leading into his small studio apartment. It’s a long and narrow place, with big glass windows at the end and a half wall separating the kitchen and sitting area from what Enjolras assumes is Grantaire’s bed. 

Enjolras has never actually been here before, though he knows that Grantaire moved out of an apartment with Feuilly just a month or so ago.

“You’re very quiet,” Grantaire remarks softly, as he locks the door behind him. Their hands graze lightly, handcuffs clinking between them.

“I like your apartment,” Enjolras answers.

“It’s not much,” he sighs, “but it serves its purpose. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“No, I ate at the Musain. But I uh…” Enjolras trails off, and flounders, looking for a way to do this without being awkward. He’s sure his cheeks are red again. “I do have to go to the bathroom.” Grantaire flushes as well, and shifts from foot to foot.

“Ah.” He pauses. “Yeah, now that you mention it.” He points to a door on the side. “I’m sure we can figure this out in the least terrible way possible.”

There’s a lot of blushing and awkward not-staring and eye-averting involved and their hands get tangled in the sink while trying to wash their hands. 

But somehow, it’s strangely domestic and Enjolras loves it. Or he would, if he wasn’t so certain he’s being a huge imposition on Grantaire. At least it’s a Friday evening, he tells himself.

“You don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow, do you?” Granatire asks hesitantly, almost reading his mind. Enjolras shakes his head.

“No,” he sighs, “tomorrow was supposed to be my day off.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault Courfeyrac handcuffed us together.” Grantaire shrugs, and Enjolras continues hesitantly. “And I would rather be handcuffed to you than to most other people.” He tries to move, but Grantaire’s standing still and staring at him. Enjolras blinks.

“Really?” Grantaire’s voice is breathless, weak. Enjolras offers a small smile.

“Yeah.”

Grantaire flicks off the lights and they stand at the foot of the bed. Only the lights from the large bay windows filter in. A soft yellow glow falls across Grantaire’s cheek and Enjolras nearly lifts a hand to caress it, but he stops himself.

“Do you need something to sleep in? Shorts?” he asks. Enjolras shakes his head. “Oh, sleeping in the nude, then?” Grantaire leans in with a smirk. “Which, for the record, is totally fine with me,” he finishes with a waggle of his eyebrows.

All Enjolras can do is roll his eyes and hope the room is dark enough that Grantaire can’t see him blushing.

“It’s okay,” Enjolras says, “I’m wearing boxers.” Thank God they hadn't been wearing coats when Courfeyrac handcuffed them. As it is, he only has to wear a t-shirt and boxers to sleep, which is pretty much the norm for him anyways. 

Enjolras is trying to take off his jeans one-handed but accidentally tries to use his manacled hand and lets out a rather undignified squeak when Grantaire's hand drags across his bare thigh.

"I'm going to ignore that," Grantaire says, and Enjolras nods. Grantaire on the other hand has no problem taking off his own jeans with one hand successfully and throws them in a pile in the corner.

"So how do we do this?" Enjolras asks in his best Combeferrian problem-solving voice.

"Sleep, I’m guessing pretty much like normal. Only we're handcuffed." Enjolras tries to give him a weak smile in reply, but it must not come across as such. "I don't bite," Grantaire chuckles, and Enjolras definitely cannot think about that. 

He eases himself onto the bed, followed by Grantaire and for a while they just lay on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling.

Grantaire takes a deep breath. "Did you know," he begins but doesn't continue.

"What?" Enjolras whispers.

In the darkness, Grantaire sounds dejected.

"I'm trying to think of some useless fact to say so this doesn't feel so awkward," he sighs. Enjolras rolls on his side just in time to see Grantaire close his eyes heavily.

"Hey," Enjolras says softly. "Hey." Grantaire opens his eyes and turns to Enjolras. Enjolras is nervous, yes, but Grantaire is visibly shaking. "It's okay," he says, and clasps Grantaire’s hand where it lies on the bed between them. The metal around his wrist is only a minor discomfort if he focuses on the curve of Grantaire's jaw instead. “We’ll get Courf to fix this.”

Grantaire breathes in and out, slowly and deeply, for several minutes.

"Are you alright?" Enjolras asks, hesitantly.

"Peachy," Grantaire says. "I'm just handcuffed to someone who barely tolerates me because our friends thought it would be a laugh. I'm just swell."

"You think I barely tolerate you?" His voice comes out very small.

“Please, Apollo,” Grantaire says, “we can hardly carry a conversation without coming to blows or one of us storming off.”

“I don’t barely tolerate you,” Enjolras counters. “I do not.”

“Well, obviously, since you always walk away-”

“Damnit, Grantaire, that’s not what I mean!” he raises his voice and it sounds louder than he meant for it to be in the empty apartment, with only he and Grantaire lying in the dark.

“What do you mean, then?” His eyes are questioning, but Enjolras focuses on their hands, still intertwined, instead.

“Just forget it,” Enjolras says in a small voice. “Just...tell me about Bernini instead.”

“Bernini?”

“Bernini, or printmaking, or that ballet class you teach, or whatever, just talk to me about something.”

“Okay,” Grantaire begins softly, and it is only to the soft rise and fall of his voice that Enjolras drifts off to sleep.

*

When Enjolras awakes, he feels warm and happy and _safe_. The sunlight is hitting the side of his face, but not unpleasantly, the morning light soft where it comes in through the window. He blinks open his eyes to find that his face is buried in Grantaire’s neck and their arms are awkwardly trapped between them. Legs are tangled together under the covers and Grantaire has an arm slung around Enjolras’s back, tucking him close into his chest.

Altogether, it’s the happiest been when he’s woken up in ages. And since he can’t extricate himself without waking Grantaire (and where would he go anyways? They’re handcuffed.), he closes his eyes again and rests his untethered hand low on the other man’s waist. If this goes to hell, he’ll deal with it when he wakes up properly.

When he does fully wake, his cheek is pressed against Grantaire's chest and their arms lying are on the bed between them. Enjolras smiles and noses into the soft cotton of Grantaire’s shirt, his un-manacled hand resting gently on the other man's stomach.

"Good morning,” comes a rough voice from somewhere near his head. Enjolras's smile slides right off his face, but he schools his look of terror into something much calmer before propping his chin on Grantaire's chest and looking up.

"Morning," he greets with a sigh. "I seem to have decided to use you as a pillow at some point, sorry," and Enjolras scoots back to his side of the bed with an apologetic grimace. To his delight, Grantaire is smiling at him.

"No apology necessary,” he chuckes. “Glad I could be of some use. And you make a rather attractive blanket, as well.” 

Enjolras hides his stupid happy grin in the pillow as Grantaire laughs good-naturedly.

"Breakfast?"

"In a bit," is Enjolras's muffled reply from the pillow.

"Not a morning person?"

"Not so much."

"I'll make pancakes," he teases. 

Enjolras peers out of the corner of his eye at Grantaire, who's grinning slyly.

"With one hand?" Enjolras queries.

"With one hand," he affirms with a wink. "Come on, up and at 'em, sunshine.”

Enjolras lets himself be pulled out of bed and lead into the kitchenette where Grantaire drags him around to gather ingredients.

"We should call Courf," Enjolras says. Grantaire sighs and nods his acquiescence.

"He won't be up for a few hours though. And you know he sleeps like the dead-- calling won't do us any good. He can't leave us like this, though, we have class on Monday. Worst case scenario is we have to spend the day like this and maybe the night again." He shrugs nonchalantly, like he hasn't just proposed that they spend the day together. Enjolras's heart catches in his throat.

"Okay," he says quietly, and Grantaire freezes, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

"Really? You're not going to march us over there to bang on the door right now?"

"I'd rather have breakfast first," is Enjolras's only response, and Grantaire smiles.

"Whatever you say, _ange_."

Enjolras groans.

"That's a terrible pun. And a terrible nickname."

"Oh, but your name lends itself to it so well. As does your golden hair..." He trails off with a laugh. "Well, maybe not with the Saturday morning bedhead." Enjolras's hands immediately go up to his head to check, jerking Grantaire's hand along as well. It ends up near his cheek and Enjolras doesn't think he's ever blushed this much in a twenty-four hour period. 

After a bit of shuffling, Grantaire has Enjolras hold the bowl while he stirs the batter, and they fall into an amicable silence, neither wanting to break the calm, happy spell of the morning.

“I feel like this is the longest we’ve ever gone without yelling,” Grantaire remarks lightly, and Enjolras groans. “I like it.”

“Does that mean you’ll stop interrupting my speeches and arguing with me?” Enjolras asks jokingly, but he’s not sure he wants that to happen. Because if they don’t argue, then they’ll hardly interact at all, and Enjolras isn’t willing to give up one of his few means of communication with Grantaire

“Please,” Grantaire snorts. “As if.” Enjolras smiles, and grabs the frying pan as Grantaire gets ready to pour some batter into it.

Then, Grantaire proceeds to flip pancakes with one hand and Enjolras is enraptured. He stands in awe while the perfect golden-brown pancakes stack up on the plate next to the stove and listens to Grantaire hum happily while he shoots a quick, inquisitory text to Combeferre, asking after Courfeyrac.

Combeferre replies in the negative and Enjolras lets out a sigh before setting his phone on the counter.

“What’s up?” Grantaire asks, as he tugs them over to retrieve syrup out of a cupboard.

“Courfeyrac didn’t go back to his apartment until late last night, but ‘Ferre says he’ll corral him for us if we’d like.” Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“I’m not surprised he ran. He probably thought you’d be on the warpath.” Grantaire pauses. “Wait - why _aren’t_ you on the warpath?” He sets the pancakes down on the table with two forks and a the bottle of syrup, but eyes Enjolras warily.

Enjolras freezes, fork halfway to a pancake. He tries to fold his arms and draw himself inward, but he instead hisses when the handcuffs yank on his already tender wrist. The skin beneath it is pink and chafed. Grantaire frowns.

“Are you okay? My wrist doesn’t look that bad.” His brow is furrowed in concern and he abandons his fork to inspect their joined hands.

“I’m okay...just not used to being tethered,” Enjolras grumbles. “It is a bit sore though.”

Grantaire gives a small smile, and takes Enjolras’s hand in his own, setting them on the table.

“What?”

Grantaire grins.

“This way when you go to move your hand, you’ll pull me with you instead of yanking on the cuffs.” He drenches the pancakes in syrup. “It’s just an idea, you can let go if you want.” Enjolras really _really_ doesn’t want to let go. He squeezes Grantaire’s hand instead.

So they sit with their hands interlaced on the table and eat pancakes. Enjolras catches Grantaire staring at him once or twice with an inquisitory look, but doesn’t mention it.

“Those were delicious,” Enjolras says when the plate is at last empty. Grantaire nods and puts his fork down, licking the last bit of syrup off his upper lip.

“I do my best,” Grantaire smiles. “You can clean up though.”

“I can _help_ ,” Enjolras says. “We can’t exactly part ways at the moment.” He lifts their hands before setting them back on the table. “Thank you, Courfeyrac,” he says, only half joking.

“Yeah,” Grantaire smirks. “About that. Why again exactly aren’t you chasing after Courfeyrac threatening to strangle him?” Grantaire scoots his chair closer to Enjolras’s.

Grantaire’s hand is very warm in his own and Enjolras stares at it for a long moment, wondering if this is when he has to admit how long he’s been pining after Grantaire.

“Um,” he starts. Grantaire raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Yes?”

“Well,” Enjolras tries again, willing words to come out of his mouth.

“So eloquent,” Grantaire quips, smirk still evident. Enjolras wants to punch his face. (Well, he wants to punch his face with his own face. Softly. With lips touching. Okay, Enjolras wants to _kiss_ Grantaire, but it would do him a lot more good to be saying this than thinking it. Now if only he can coax the words out.)

Enjolras lets out a frustrated noise and glares Grantaire’s laughter into submission.

“I am not having the worst time in the world,” Enjolras says slowly. A strong blush creeps up his neck; he feels like Marius trying to talk to Cosette for the first time, and that had been a disaster.

“High praise,” Grantaire comments, and leans further towards Enjolras, who swallows audibly. 

“It’s the truth,” Enjolras says, and tightens his grip on Grantaire’s hand.

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Grantaire jokes, and Enjolras blushes.

“Well,” he starts, but Grantaire stops him.

“I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s okay,” Grantaire says, a whisper away from Enjolras’s lips. “Please, _please_ stop me if I’m about to make a fool of myself.”

In lieu of answering, Enjolras twines his free hand in Grantaire’s curls and kisses him. It’s soft and Grantaire yields against him, melting into him like it’s natural. Enjolras had never assumed, never thought that maybe this could happen, but everything seems to make sense to him now as Grantaire licks against the seam of his mouth. Their linked hands part in order to try and better clutch at each other, but the bit of metal against their wrists makes both wince and pull away.

“These need to go,” Enjolras says, slightly breathless. He presses his lips at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth.

“Yes,” Grantaire agrees with a sigh, leaning his forehead against Enjolras’s.

“Courfeyrac’s?” he asks. Enjolras nods.

“Courfeyrac’s.”

*

Enjolras knocks viciously on Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s door until the former finally cracks the door open an inch. Grantaire wedges his foot in the door to force it to stay open, and they’re greeted by the sight of a smiling Courfeyrac, who at least has the grace to look bashful when he can’t close the door.

“Key, now,” Enjolras says forcefully. Courfeyrac looks down.

“You two are holding hands,” he remarks dumbly.

“Key,” Grantaire emphasizes. “ _Now_.” Courfeyrac grins and rushes back into the apartment, returning with a gleaming silver key only a moment later. He unlocks their wrists, and Enjolras sighs in relief, running fingers along his slightly sore wrist. He looks at Grantaire, who nods, and pins Courfeyrac in a giant hug, while Enjolras cuffs Courfeyrac’s wrist to the doorknob. When Enjolras is done, Grantaire pats Courfeyrac on the back and steps away, key still in the palm of his hand.

Courfeyrac tentatively tries to pull his wrist away, as if he is expecting something other than his wrist being tethered to the door. Finding this is not the case, he whines pathetically, and Enjolras laughs before slipping an arm around Grantaire’s waist, hooking a thumb into his belt loop. Grantaire brings up Enjolras’s other wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss against the reddened skin. Enjolras flushes, and Courfeyrac just gazes at them with an open mouth. 

Grantaire drops the key on the ground just out of Courfeyrac’s reach. 

“I know for a fact Combeferre is at the library,” Enjolras says.

“I hope he’s home soon?” Grantaire shrugs, before wrapping his arm around Enjolras’s shoulders and pressing a kiss to his temple. Enjolras smiles happily, and lets himself be led down the hall, both ignoring Courfeyrac calling their names desperately.

“That worked out well,” Enjolras says as they make their way onto the sidewalk outside the apartment building.

“Yes,” Grantaire smiles, and Enjolras can tell he doesn’t just mean their prank on Courfeyrac. “It did, didn’t it?” Grantaire’s hands rest low on Enjolras’s waist, but his touch is light and his tone is still tentative. They will need to talk about what this is, how this happened, but it can wait a day or so.

In the meantime, Enjolras smiles and pulls him in for another kiss.


End file.
